Just a line as you have been much in my thoughts lately. The Scottish Art Review is
publishing a review of November Boughs next month—by me—and I send you a
slip. The winter keeps very mild here, but gloomy, and we don't see much of the sun.
I suppose you find your strength waning very much, and don't reckon to be
long with us now. Mr. Sharpe, my old harper friend that I told you of, died a few
days ago—"very quiet & gentle" says his son writing to me. I hope you have not
much pain dear Walt; we shall miss you so much—but you will perhaps understand
more about us than we about you.

I am in London for a week or two. A friend of
yours, from Belfast, who does not give his name, wants to send the enclosed 22/6 to
buy you some little thing, now you are ill. So you will accept it, won't you? Affectionate
remembrances to Herbert Gilchrist if you see him.